A Song of Dust and Reincarnation
by JamJackEvo
Summary: Yang never believed in reincarnation until it happened to her, and though it should've been a grand life with a new (if familiar) name and new beginnings, it wasn't grand at all. After all, with wights in the forest and a harsh long winter inevitably coming, it's like she just exchanged one death world for another. But whoever said Summer the Firemaiden shies away from danger?
1. A Dragon Reborn

Posted on FanFiction: April 28, 2019

Updated: September 14, 2019

**New A/N:** This chapter used to be short, topping at 4k or 5k. Now it has reached 10k. There was just so much information I'd been unable to write down the first time through that some readers found the beginning confusing. I hope this new version fixes that.

**Old A/N:** I hadn't written stories for a while, and though a part of me wished I resumed one of my older fics (that one's at the endgame now), fresh ideas kept calling for me, and this is one that called the loudest. Much of the story will be focused on ASOIAF's book continuity since, sanning the Internet being the Internet with spoilers, I haven't watched a single episode of the TV show.

* * *

/ — —** CHAPTER 1 **— — \

**A Dragon Reborn**

**-o- -o- -o- -o- ( I ) -o- -o- -o- -o-**

Her mind was awhirl, finding rational thought difficult to grasp, and the only thing she was certain of was this mantra that kept resounding almost by instinct: _Don't anger Father_.

Yet it seemed she had. The blow on the side of her head shot a painful throb to her nerves, keeping her on the ground, dazed, defeated. She blinked a couple of times, took slow deep breaths, looked for something to distract her mind from the pain.

Something was happening out of sight, but her focus was still inward. Her vision began to clear after blinking the tears away. A firepit was in view, atop of which was what should be a large pot smelling of stew close to being ready. Instead the pot was overturned, spilling its content to the dirt floor where the puppies and piglets scurried to eat the mess. Next to that was a small table, which memory said to have some bowls and utensils upon its surface, yet right now one particular bowl was on the ground, shattered, and the rest laying haphazardly near it. Again, she could sense something was happening somewhere to her right, something that brought a bout of fear in her stomach. Rational thought soon returned, like a snowstorm passing their home.

_Home?_

Wait, who was she?

_It's… it's Yang. Yang Xiao Long. I remember now._

**_Summer. Mother gave me that name. I was her light in this cold world._**

What is this place?

_I don't know this place. I remember heading to Atlas with my team, but…_

**_Home. It's where we live._**

Who's we?

**_My sisters and I. Mother. Father. Mother is—_**

_Wait, what is this? What's going on?!_

"I'm sorry! I shan't do it again. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

**_Mother angered Father. She deserves this._**

_What? Dad would never do that to Mom. No, wait… that's not Mom. That's not Dad either…_

Blood in her veins pulsed loudly; she could hear her heart beat, strong and fierce and desperate. The pain from where Father had hit her was pulsing, too, rhythmic, swollen, and excruciating. She tried to move her head to get a better look at what he was doing. Overhead, she could feel several eyes upon her. Silent observers of this beating, of a graying old man hammering fist after fist onto a defenseless crying woman while she, a child of ten years, lay close to them, having failed to stop him.

Why _did_ she try to stop him?

Nobody stops Father. Whenever the drink addled his mind and he felt one of them offended him, it was only right he beat the rebellion off of them. It was only right. It was only—

_Except it's not_.

How could she be sure? This was all she ever knew. This was her lot in life, and if not for Father, then her brothers would've come out of the dark woods and take them all long ago. He was their shield, and as such deserved this much control over them. He knew better.

She saw Father's back and could feel the rage wafting from it. He loomed over Mother's form, both hands made into fists as he beat her over and over. Blood from her broken nose, blood from her split lip, blood from the wound on her forehead—that was from when Father threw his stone cup at her, when Mother accidentally tripped from trying to avoid a rowdy puppy crossing her way and spilled their dinner.

She deserved it. So did she, herself, for trying to stop this punishment.

_This isn't right! He keeps this up, he'll kill her. Stop him!_

Somehow, she mustered the strength to sit back up. The ache in her head continued to throb, much louder, much fiercer. Flashing images. A young girl with red hair holding a scythe almost twice as big as her. Another with hair as white as snow. Another with dark hair atop of which were two ears that should belong to wolves not humans (_cats, not wolves, CATS_). Then there was a mirror and she saw herself—golden hair reaching her waist, red angry eyes, and only one arm.

Her left hand instinctively grasped her right forearm, knowing it should be there yet at the same time _believing_ it should no longer be there. Not after what Adam had done.

But who's Adam?

_No one to fear. Not anymore._

Her head throbbed. Her memories were all over the forefront of her mind, like an incessant snowstorm. She remembered her mother being kind and gentle, if a little cynical, but she also remembered another mother who was also kind and gentle and had silver eyes and baked cookies like no other. And she also remembered meeting a third mother (her _real_ mother) who was cold and dismissive, her red eyes showing nothing but discontent and disinterest at her. She remembered having a sister, so many sisters, young and old; yet she also remembered having just _one_ sister, whose power and presence trumped her own, inheriting the same silver eyes as the second mother. She remembered—

**_No more! No more! Get out of my head!_**

She wanted to stop thinking and get some rest. But Father was still punishing Mother. It had been too long, too much already, yet he was still there, standing over Mama Willow, who was now showing plenty of bruising and a lot of oozing blood.

She didn't know what came over her. She blamed the other person in her head taking control over her body, grabbing hold of the scalding pot with her bare hands, walking towards Father, and then slamming the pot straight onto his back.

The throbbing got worse. Both head and hands, which smoked from the burns on it. The smell was horrible.

Her ears picked up screaming. Multiple sources, and she was certain her own was one of them. She saw herself picking up the pot again as Father lay on the floor next to Mother. He tried to get up, but he was having trouble doing so. Mother crawled away from him, crying all the while. She lifted the pot over her head, somehow numb from the heat and the nauseating smell of burnt flesh. Father looked over his shoulder, straight at her and the pot above her, and maybe for the very first time in this new life, she witnessed fear in his eyes.

He screamed, the fear overtaking all else, and she took great satisfaction from it before slamming the pot directly onto his head.

He had gone silent, but the screams still came. From above, from Mother, from the dogs and pigs, and most frighteningly, from her own mouth. The headache was at its peak, feeling like someone were shedding her scalp with a knife. She wanted to massage her forehead, but bringing up her hands just made the nauseating smell harder to ignore.

"Mm… ah…" She called out for Mama Willow, or at least tried to. Everything was spinning, and the pain was slowly fading.

She was out by the time her head landed on wet mud, asleep through the aftermath, asleep through the fear and turmoil, only waking when it was time to set changes to what was once known as Craster's Keep.

* * *

**-o- -o- -o- -o- ( II ) -o- -o- -o- -o-**

The next time Yang felt conscious of her own thoughts, absent of pain-inducing discrepancies, she was lying in a small, soft bed where the cold seems to nibble at her feet, which had slid out of the thick, woolen blanket atop her. She tried to sit up, but a rush of pain coursed from her head and hands. Hissing, she gently peeled the blanket off her torso and inspected the state of her hands. They throbbed like mad and proved difficult to clench without shooting another pain rush.

Bandaged, bloodied, and still smelling faintly of burnt flesh, she should've known how holding onto a scalding pot with bare flesh was a bad idea.

_It's all right_, she thought, trying to find the bright side to this. _At least I saved Mother._

… Mother?

Yang blinked, briefly looking into her memories, wondering if she was misremembering something, but all that did was trigger a nauseating onslaught of concepts, images, and sounds she'd never experienced before. This time, she hissed louder, putting her hands, palms up, on her forehead. It felt like a dozen needles being pricked through the back of her eyes going outward. She stayed that way for a while, unsure how long, but when she finally lifted the knuckles from her head, she felt warm sweat cooling on her skin.

It was surreal to think that she'd been reincarnated with memories of her past life, but that seemed to be the case, unless she'd been a very imaginative child, living another life in another world after Father hit her in the head, creating very innovative concepts like guns, computers, long-distance communications, and fast modes of transport, while conjuring disturbing ideas of racism, corruption, genocide, and the varied creatures of Grimm.

_Not to mention the shattered moon in Remnant._ Her eyes moved to the window, where sunlight poured in as if to complement her awakening while opposing her thoughts.

"Summer?"

On instinct—more out of habit than startle—Yang moved her head to the right. A small child peeked up from the top of the loft's ladder, her face scrunched in concern. Blue inquisitive eyes, a face lacking baby fat, and blonde hair tied into a single braid placed over her left shoulder, she reminded Yang so much of how she'd looked at that age. Yang grasped for a name to fit the face as she replied with a raspy "Good morning."

As if that were a secret signal, the girl's eyes widened and shouted below, "Summer is awake!"

Beyond the loft, the main hall burst into chaotic activity, voices speaking over each other, some hurried footsteps, the yelping of puppies, and Kelpie—the little girl—climbed the rest of the way up the ladder to make room for another to ascend. The ladder shook about with each step that Yang worried it'd slide off before the climber reached the platform. Kelpie crouched near her, smiling, blue eyes twinkling, and gave her a brief hug.

"I thought you'd never wake up." Kelpie's knee landed on her hand.

Yang winced but did her best to keep her voice at a whisper when she said, "Ow, ow, ow…!"

"Oh!" Kelpie quickly pulled away, shame-faced, just as another face appeared atop the ladder.

"Oh sunshine…" Summer's mother, a young woman named Willow, climbed the rest of the way, crouched where Kelpie had crouched earlier, and checked the bandages on her head and arms. "How are you feeling?"

_Other than feeling like this is some kind of wild fever dream where I'm reborn with the name of my stepmom and my mother here, right in front of me, shares the same name as my teammate's mom… _"I feel fine."

Willow frowned. "You don't _sound_ fine to me. Kelly, go down and fetch some water."

Kelpie nodded. "Yes, mother."

As she watched her little sister (who is not Ruby) walk to the ladder, Yang felt a hand on her forehead.

"Your fever broke, at least," Willow said.

Having her face this close, Yang could now clearly see the damage Craster had done. The bruises were dark, the scab on her lips dry, and the swelling under Willow's left eye small, though Yang suspected it wasn't always that way. It had time to heal. The various bruises on her face and arms were already taking on that pus-like yellow at their edges. Anger coursed through her for every bruise she saw, yet she was content with knowing that the monster would never hurt another soul again. Although a part of her worried over the lack of remorse she felt.

_How long was I out? _Yang wanted to ask, but what came out instead was: "How long have I been asleep?" Almost like on reflex, like a last-second correction.

Willow's face scrunched, and here Yang could see the great resemblance between her and Kelpie. All here in Craster's Keep had considered each other sisters that Yang almost forgot that in this new life she was living, she wasn't the only child Willow conceived. There were ten years worth of memories in her mind now of life in the frigid North—although technically this ten-year-old brain had just "remembered" nineteen years worth of memories of an adventurous but tragic life in a world called Remnant that somehow became the dominant personality now—and barely any time to carefully sift through everything. She'd have to play things by the ear, and currently, thinking over the patricide she'd committed, things were quite uneasy within Craster's Keep. It was certainty not based on facts but gut feeling.

"You've been in bed for four days now."

She knew she needn't ask, but was compelled to anyway. "And what of father?"

"Dead," Willow said, brushing her hair with her hands.

"And the others?" Yang paused, her mind suddenly conjuring tales of tall, looming creatures in the forest with an appetite for flesh and a penchant of raising the dead, and then corrected her question with, "I mean, the rest of us?"

"We're all…" Willow stopped, looked away, took a deep breath. When her eyes met hers again, she said, "We're handling things as best we can. Just know that no one blames you for what happened."

She was away from the Remnant culture she knew, but whether it was in a Grimm-infested world or an Other-infested world, the taboo of patricide was the same. Would she have done the same with her old father, Taiyang? She remembered no remorse ever passing her heart at the time she threw down that pot nor did she feel it ever afterward. What did that make her? She looked down at the sheets, and felt like wrapping herself in them, never to come out. "I murdered father."

"No." Willow grabbed her face, making them look eye-to-eye again, but leaned her face a little so that the worst of the bruising was prominent. "Summer, you _saved_ me. Craster looked ready to _kill_ me if not for you."

Yang understood that, saw firsthand the assault on her, the blood, the screams, the drunken fury, but it did little to take away this feeling of indifference. No remorse for the death, but no elation either, as if the murder was a natural progression of things here. Callous. Cold.

"We'll get through this," Willow said. "Just remember that no one blames you for what happened."

It was a lie, she knew. Summer, the child in her, had wondered so many times why nobody in their family killed Craster long ago. Kill him in his sleep, steal his axe and whack him in the head with it, make him choke, bury his face in the firepit. As much as the child fantasized about ridding evil from this world (and she definitely believed Craster was evil), on an instinctive level she somehow understood why no one dared to defy Father. He had all the cards. He was respected enough by other freefolk to not raid his home. The Night's Watch trusted him and always warned them of keeping their hands to themselves. But most importantly, he helped keep the cold ones away. The cold ones and the sons and brothers they received as tribute.

Willow hugged her, doing her best to avoid touching her bandaged hands. "Everything's going to be fine."

It was a lie, an obvious lie, but for right now Yang didn't care. She hugged this woman back as she put aside everything to focus on this moment… because she doubted mother and daughter would have this time of peace again.

* * *

She still had her Aura, funnily enough. She didn't know why she thought being reincarnated meant her Aura would disappear; it was a physical manifestation of her soul after all. But to be fair, she hadn't experienced reincarnation before, so there was no telling which part of her disappeared and which remained. Memories, yes; Aura, now a yes; magic, no.

Remembering more of the events that led up to her death, it was impossible for the mantle of the Spring Maiden would follow her in the next life. It had always been a temporary arrangement, a contract made and upheld in life, and in the moment of her death, the contract became null and the mantle moved to someone else. Her last thought had been Ruby. Yang hoped that had been enough. Hoping was all she could do now, here. The rest of her friends would have to save Remnant without her.

What mattered now was picking up the pieces shattered from that night. The eldest women had been in talks with each other, agreeing and arguing for days since she'd been knocked unconscious. Even when she was awake, none had come to a definitive agreement on what to do. Some of the women wanted to leave Craster's Keep forever, but with no idea on where to go or how to get started (or avoid the sons and brothers in the forest come to get their revenge, a few of the young ones whispered). Other women chose to stay here, try to wash away the bad and start fresh where they've always lived, but were unable to provide a solution for when the crows or other freefolk come to visit. The former would be business as usual, but the latter would be business as hostile takeover.

"We'll take up arms and defend our home," said one of the younger sisters, barely any older than Yang's current body was.

"With what, sticks and stones?" One of the elder sisters replied. If Yang recalled correctly, she was the eldest of the group, having been here to see her daughters and granddaughters become Craster's wife. Ferny. It was hard to gauge how old Ferny really was, given the state of their living, the terror of Father, and life in general. Yang could only guess by appearance, and she looked to be a woman pushing fifty soon. "What good will that do, child?"

The young girl took a step back, feeling overwhelmed from all the eyes set upon her, waiting for a response. When she chanced a look at Yang, something seemed to click in place and she managed to regain a bit of her confidence. "Better to live on my feet than on my knees!"

Ferny scoffed. "You mean _die_ on your feet. Look at us, here, girl." She gestured to the gathered women and children along the firepit, as she herself sat on Craster's spot. "We barely look intimidating enough to scare the dogs. Our weapons consist of nothing more than sharpened sticks and dull iron. _They_ have spears and arrows to spare. Can you live with yourself knowing that everyone here will die should we raise a hand against a more powerful group?"

The girl backed off, eyes to the ground, biting her lip.

"I know it's not the most desired choice," Ferny said to everyone. "It's not even the safest choice, but the candle is burning, and it won't be long before news spread of Craster's death. They'll come, then. But for now, we need to prepare for it. To those who wish to leave, you may do so; I will not fault you for it. To those who wish to stay, harden your hearts for what is to come."

Yang looked at the people around the firepit. Faces, young and old, showing defeat before the battle even started. Many had already made up their minds, Yang knew, and whatever remnant of a family this place had left would shatter when the first groups pack up and leave. The odds of survival were not at all in their favor, but in this world where might meant living, there was little to nothing these women and girls could do against the coming forces that want to claim Craster's Keep as their own.

"I intend to fight."

Several eyes honed in on her, wide and surprised. Yang swallowed the small lump in her throat and stepped forward. Her mother had a grasp on her elbow, but Yang wrung it away. _I need to say my piece_, she tried to convey to Willow without saying a word. She doubted it went through, because how could it? Yang's personality was more dominant than Summer, ten-year-old child of Craster, and far more forward than Willow would've been used to. Still, Yang had no time to placate, but to antagonize.

"I am not about to sit down and watch our home be taken from us."

Antagonize the defeatist attitude of her sisters.

"I've had enough of it from _that monster_. I am taking my life into my own hands from here on."

Antagonize the submissive frame of mind ingrained to them by dear ol' Father.

"And if anybody out there has a problem with that, then too bad for them. I'm not backing down without a fight."

Antagonize those who would cause them harm.

Ferny looked at her with narrowed eyes and tight lips. She put her hands on her knees and slowly stood up, never breaking eye contact. "Are you so arrogant after killing Craster that you believe more death will solve all our problems?"

Yang had a witty response ready, but she doubted this household was qualified in detecting the subtle beats of sarcasm. So instead, she said, "We do not kneel. You and mother always say that to us. It's what differentiates us from the crows and the southerners." She looked towards the girl who spoke up first to defend their home. "Gilly has the right idea. I'd rather live on my feet than die on my knees."

Ferny scoffed again. "You've switched—"

"I know what I said," Yang interrupted.

The group whispered amongst themselves, beyond surprised at the abrasiveness she showed. From what she remembered of Summer's years here, it was not so different to how Yang had been at that age, tough, vengeful, and far too expressive with her emotions. This defiance was unprecedented, considering her obedience under Craster before a potshot killed him, but not beyond possibility.

She expected Ferny to get angry, but all she did was smile before saying, "Then you are twice the fool Gilly is."

Yang soon understood. Ferny saw no meaning in continuing this discussion with a child. Yang might have killed Craster, but that was like shutting down a kingdom's defense system because Watts had uploaded his virus into the central servers. She saved them from peril, but she also opened them up to another kind of peril. More so, the elder woman didn't know what Yang knew, how much help she could truly give to her sisters so they no longer have to bow their heads for another man, how much _power_ she held within her soul.

She clenched her fists, just wishing she could punch this doubt away and—

Her eyes widened as she looked down at her hands. Her bandaged hands, clenching and unclenching with full sensation in her nerves… but no pain.

_Mother said the burns won't heal for another fortnight._ A plan was slowly taking root. _I don't know the extent of my Aura in this new body, but it doesn't hurt to try._

"Willow, take Summer to rest," Ferny said, putting the discussion and the meeting to a close. "It's clear the medicine is mucking her brain."

Willow nodded, stepped forward, and soon hurried her feet when Yang started removing her bandages. "What are you doing? Stop that!"

She was midway to her unwrapping when her mother grabbed hold of both arms. "Let me go!"

"Stop it, Summer! Don't remove the bandages."

Willow was being gentle with her grip, fearing she'd hurt her. Yang managed to wiggle out of her grasp and continue unwrapping her bandages till she got the one on her left arm completely removed. "Look!"

Everyone did so. Most didn't understand, but Willow, Kelpie, the older girls, and Ferny, most importantly, saw what was unsaid. Skin, healed and unblemished, on her palm. They had all seen the state of it three days prior, the flesh cooked and the skin completely burned off. Such a devastating injury was impossible to completely heal in a short time. Yet it had healed and left no scars behind.

"You don't doubt my conviction," Yang said, stepping towards the firepit, whose edges was lined with a tiny wall of rocks. She grabbed one nearest her, near the fire, and if not for her Aura insulating most of the heat, she'd be feeling the blisters forming about her palm. Raising her arm up to shoulder level, bits of ash falling through the gaps of her fingers, all saw the smoke coming from the rock, its surface long blackened by fire after fire throughout the years. "But you do doubt my power."

She made sure Ferny was looking straight at her before she clenched hard. Her new body was frail, unused to extreme physical exertion. But if it had garnered the strength to lift that scalding pot and threw it down to deliver the killing blow on their father, then crushing the rock would be simple enough. It took more effort than she was accustomed to, like trying to squeeze metal than stone, all while the sensation felt new and old at the same time. It had been over a year since she lost her right arm, and though it'd been replaced with a well-oiled and -functioning piece of Atlesian tech, it still felt like having control of a limb gone numb. The contours of the rock, the heat pounding on her Aura, the tips of her fingers going pale as she tightened her grip… she could see and feel all this.

With a loud crunch, the stone gave out. Shards fell to the ashes in the firepit. She opened up her palm and showed what was left of the rock, its brownish interior standing out against the rock soot and her ash-stained palm.

"Summer…?"

The whispers got louder, and a new emotion took root in the eyes of the crowd: fear.

"Tens, hundreds, thousands, it doesn't matter to me," Yang said, her voice cutting through the others without the need to shout. Unbidden, she then unwrapped the bandages on her other hand. "I'm making my stand here. Be they crows, freefolk, or the cold ones." With the bandages off, she struck her fist and palm together, the sound thunderous in the silenced hall. _I've done this song and dance before. Died doing it, too. But hey, live like every day's the last, right? _"I will protect our family."

Questions would need to be answered, defenses would have to be prepared, and a leadership would have to be put in place. These would all come in time, one by one, and if her goal for this family's solidarity was successful, she'd ensure they'd have nothing to fear again.

* * *

**(FERNY)**

"I will protect our family."

How long ago had she heard those very same words from a man who whispered sweet, plentiful lies into her ear? She was unsure.

If anyone else had said them to her, they would've been scoffed out of the house. Words were just words, in the end, and she'd rather not be fooled twice.

_Yet…_

There was fire in the young one's eyes. It'd been there when she brought that pot onto that damned Craster's head with a satisfying squelch. It unnerved her then, and it unnerved her now, following the display of strength the little one showed. Ferny once suspected some divine intervention had occurred on that night, that the Old Gods, tired of Craster's conferring with the cold ones, had come into Summer's prone form and sought to end the bastard's countless blasphemy. It seemed too good, too heavy-handed for the Old Gods to have a hand in, so Ferny tossed away the thought as nothing but wishful thinking.

_Now…_

It felt like Ferny was seeing Summer for the first time. A young one, a month or so away from her eleventh nameday, who had yet to be tainted by the profane incest this so-called family endured throughout the years, who had never _been _tainted, as her mother was an outsider before Craster took her to wife. Instead, she'd been tainted a different way, the slaying of one's own kin. The price of blood for blood. Yet now Ferny had been made to wonder just whose blood truly runs inside Summer's veins as something akin to fire began to rise from the tips of her shoulder-length hair. Fire that didn't smoke, but its presence was felt regardless, her daughters stepping back, guided by their primal instinct of danger. Ferny hid a gasp when she gazed upon her eyes once more.

Red like blood. Red like weirwood leaves. Red like embers. The fire in her eyes, fully manifested.

_Fire… The fire to fight back the cold…_

This was a sign, Ferny knew. Still, it was a change to what the Old Gods had always done, which was to be mere witnesses to the acts and deeds of the freefolk. The uncertainty gave her doubt, but the power resonating from Summer was unmistakable. And her enemy was clear.

Ferny began to smile, and within that smile was a feeling she thought she'd never experience again: hope for the future.

"Maybe," she said, moving her eyes along the hall, watching the various expressions of the young and old, "the gods haven't abandoned us after all." She brought her gaze back to Summer, whose name now held more meaning than ever before. "Very well, Summer. I trust you know what we need to do, then?"

Her lopsided grin showed youthful arrogance but with the power to back it up.

* * *

**-o- -o- -o- -o- ( III ) -o- -o- -o- -o-**

_Six years later…_

The gale was mild today, moving downwind so that her mark wouldn't catch her scent. A pair of deer, a doe and a fawn, bringing forth a memory of watching a movie of a similar premise. Though sentimentality wished to stay her hand, she also knew that food was a little scarce this month, more so when she'd heard that the Night's Watch were ranging near their settlement. After their last two visits, she wanted to ensure her sisters wouldn't go rationing their portions for the little ones.

Within her, she summoned the mindset of her old self, how she had experimented with several different weapons before deciding her own fists would be best. She had been an impressive shot, both in guns and archery, and so she brought forth that talent to reality. Her bow was out, arrow nocked, breath steady, targeting the neck. The doe's ears twitched, swerving its head to where she heard the distant noise… and unintentionally dodging her arrow.

She clicked her tongue as she rummaged her quiver for another arrow. The doe's head swerved again, this time towards her hiding spot, and in the next moment bolted away from the clearing. The little one followed swiftly, and both have disappeared into the dense forest before she could line the next shot. She cursed under her breath and debated on chasing after the prey. It'd be spooked, its guard up, making the hunt a lot more difficult, which meant more time needed to bring back meat and she'd been at this for hours now. Her eyes tracked the sky beyond the holes in the canopy of leaves and branches, easily judging it to be closing in on evening. She disliked it, but she'd have to return home empty-handed.

Then her ears picked up a deer's scream in the distance. Right where the earlier doe had fled.

When she came upon the animal's corpse, her little sister Kelpie had her knife sunk inside its neck right next to the arrow. The fawn was nowhere in sight.

"Caught it," Kelpie said, grinning at her.

Yang couldn't help chuckling. "At least you didn't step in any twigs this time."

Kelpie was unusually silent, a blush slowly coming to her cheeks.

Yang rolled her eyes, recalling the deer's swift turn before her own arrow could hit it, a sign its ears caught a sound that spooked it. "Quite the lucky day for you, Kelly."

She pulled the knife and arrow out and handed them over to her sister. Kelpie was three years younger than her, but out of all the young ones who'd tasted what it felt to be free of beatings and hunger, she was the only one dissatisfied. Yang could see in Kelpie's bright blue eyes that she sought for something bigger and grander than what they had now, that there was more to the world than snow and a sea of trees. This was why Yang chose her to hunt with her. The older girls—those who'd stayed anyway—were content with their good fortune, so Kelpie, feeling like the odd girl of the bunch for having a want of more, buried them inside. She reminded Yang so much of her old self, an adrenaline junkie striving for both thrills and adventure, and to see someone have that drive but no outlet, Yang decided to give her one, which was practical for both Kelpie's adventurous spirit and the family.

She smiled widely, even as her little sister bowed her head and stared at the bloodied arrow she held in both hands. "Three years ago," Yang said, "you could barely pull back the bowstring."

Kelpie looked up, frowning. "Huh? What brought this on?"

Yang shrugged. "Just… reminiscing."

"You're sounding like an old lady again, sister."

Yang laughed. With two sets of memories, she did feel more like a woman in her thirties, but as always, she kept that tidbit to herself. Moving back to the dead deer, she grabbed under it with both hands and hoisted it up her shoulder. It was still bleeding, but that mattered little. Getting home before night time, however, mattered a lot more. No one had seen a wight for years now, but just because they were out of sight didn't mean the danger had passed. Besides that, there were dangers in the forest other than the undead.

"Well," Yang said, gesturing to the deer on her shoulder, "can Mother Ferny do this?"

Kelpie rolled her eyes—a habit she learned from Yang. "Always with the muscles…"

As they walked back home, Yang said, "Just saying… this deer was in the middle of bolting out of here. And you shot her through the neck."

"Like I said, luck."

"It's not just luck, Kelly." If Yang could, she would've patted her head, like how she used to do with Ruby. But Kelpie positioned herself to Yang's right, the same side on which she carried their meat for the next few days. "You've got real skill with that bow. Keep honing it and you'll likely shoot a crow mid-flight!"

"That is impossible, sister."

Her eyes swept up to the tree branches, and as per usual, a solitary black bird perched itself there, its gaze more intelligent than all of the flocks she'd seen. In another life, she would've found some solace in them, but now, with zombies and wargs lurking in the woods, she grew to distrust them. This one most of all. Its gaze followed her every step, and it was downright unnerving. "Only if you believe it is!"

The conversation dwindled after that. Their priority now was getting home with the provisions intact. They found the game trail they traveled from and made their way back. Nighttime was fast approaching, and the forest was already acting on it. Night bugs sang their songs, the snow crunched underfoot, and the winds howled across sentinels, oak, and—one that never fails to put a wry smile on her face—ironwood. Halfway through their journey, they walked past a small grove of weirwood trees and at the center stood the tree with the widest trunk, which had been roughly carved to portray a face. Her sisters and mothers called this a heart tree, but Yang saw no heart in its creation. Whenever she looked at it, she could only think of an expression of endless agony, with the way it cried and drooled blood-colored sap from its holes. She once wondered aloud what the sap drooping tasted like and was quickly dissuaded from trying it. Before Craster's death, none were allowed to come here and pray to the heart tree. After… well, Yang had been surprised how religious Mother Ferny had been. Free to worship the Old Gods without fear, if Ferny wasn't busy tending to the chores and problems back home, she'd make the journey here and just pray, always dragging someone to accompany and guard her. Usually Yang. And usually trying to have her join in praying.

Yang hurried her steps. She never got used to the heart tree's crying visage. It reminded her of those who suffered for her—

_The blood coming out of her mouth…_

_Coming out of her red eyes._

_The fear in those eyes._

_The dark feathers falling around them._

_The grip in her hand weakened._

_Slackened._

_Her eyes slowly closed, never to open again._

_The mantle was passed on._

—and she wished not to remember.

They exited the grove, white and red giving way to black and green. The wind picked up. It hit their faces and swayed the branches above, making them groan like old furniture. She chanced a glance upwards, searching for a hole in the canopy so she could gauge how much time they had before complete darkness would come. Everything above was enveloped in branches and evergreen leaves so layered, much less feeling sunlight, she doubted even raindrops would get through it. As it was, they were relying on night vision and complete familiarity in this section of the forest to get themselves home. It wasn't total darkness, but the shadows had overtaken the presence of light that it was difficult to find the scratches and lines she and her sisters had put on the tree barks. Yang was looking at one familiar tree, double-checking if they were still going the right path, that she sensed the danger quickly.

In a show of unfeasible strength, she grabbed the deer on her shoulder with both hands and hurled it to a lurking shadow to their left. The shadow retreated, but it hadn't given up yet. The silhouette and glowing yellow eyes led her to believe it was a shadowcat. They were fast, they were silent, and in recent weeks, they were hungrier than usual.

"Let's go." She put her hand on her dagger's holster, watching and listening to the forest around them.

Kelpie took out her bow, nocked an arrow. "Not without the deer."

This was no time for posturing. Hungry zebra-tigers were an absolute pain to fight. "Kelly…"

"It's just one shadowcat. We can take it."

A second shadowcat pounced behind Kelpie, as if to mock her. They tumbled to the ground, its growls fierce, her screams desperate. Yang pulled out her dagger and shoved the animal off her sister. Kelpie rolled herself away, clutching her left arm and leaving red tracks along the snowy path. The dagger sank into the beast's shoulder, and the shadowcat yelped before swerving its tail right at Yang's head. She blocked it, and it felt like Mercury's unhindered roundhouse, shooting pain through her arm, momentum through her body. Her grip on the dagger came free as she fell down, shoulder first.

She rolled out when the shadowcat went for another pounce, claws barely missing her. Bereaved of any conventional weapon, Yang resorted to the quiver on her back. The arrowheads were small, the shaft brittle, but it would have to do. The shadowcat eyed her with its bright yellow eyes, growling deep as it tried to circle her. Yang breathed deep, exhaled, and hefted her arrow-dagger up to her chest, ready to stab an eye should the black tiger decide to try its luck once more. Her dagger was still on its shoulder, three-quarters embedded into its tough flesh. From her peripheral vision, Kelpie was doing something, and though curiosity and worry wanted to know what it was, Yang's instincts demanded she keep sight of the enemy.

Two girls in a dark forest, stalked by hungry creatures with dangerous glowing eyes. It'd be a lie to say this situation didn't bring forth old memories. This time was different, though. Yang or Kelpie couldn't rely on an Uncle Qrow to come and save them. These weren't Grimm, their hunger more out of desperation than wanton destruction. And above all else, neither she nor Kelpie were defenseless little girls.

Yang came to the tiger first, denying it a chance of another attack. The beast went low as if to pounce. She focused solely on its descent, so it came too late for her to react when the first shadowcat leapt out of the darkness behind the second, claws out, mouth open, eyes filled with hunger, heading right her way. Dodging was impossible. Yang had just time to blink before she felt large claws digging into her fur shirt. Her free arm, covered in Aura, came up to stop its mouth from lunging for her neck. By then, her back reacquainted itself with the snowy ground, and she decided to introduce this cat with her boots, tossing its momentum ever forward and driving its back on a tree trunk. Her stomach felt a chill, but she had no chance to check the damage before the second shadowcat was on her too.

She grabbed its neck as it wildly swished with its claws and tried to wiggle itself out of the hold. This time, Yang remembered the arrow in her hand and she drove it right into the beast's eye, which popped like a balloon. The beast's struggles got wilder, its screams almost deafening. She could push the arrow deeper, but her eyes noticed the dagger still on its shoulder. Yanking it free distracted the shadowcat enough for Yang to roll them over so that she was now atop, left hand still choking it, right hand holding the dagger. With a war cry, Yang plunged the dagger deep into its neck. The beast's scream degraded into gurgles and wheezes, its struggling into sporadic flailing, and in seconds it was still.

Yang stood up, high on adrenalin, covered in blood, and hooked with a need to kill the other. The still-living beast glared as it crouched low, growling. Old instincts began to kick in; she clenched her fists and assumed a boxer's stance. She could feel her Aura blazing inside her. The accumulated kinetic force she both gave and took fed her Semblance with power. The grin came naturally as she gestured for the shadowcat to come at her. It bared its fangs, slowly backing away, and when she was about to give chase, an arrow flew true and pierced the right side of its neck. The beast turned its attention to the archer, eyes glowing with rage and hate, and Yang took this chance to dash forward. It only had time to take one small step back before Yang punched its face once, twice, thrice, and then kicked it back onto the ironwood tree. The bark cracked, almost masking the tiger's bones doing the same.

The shadowcat was still alive, but did not rise back up. All it could muster now were whimpers and heavy breathing. A small cloud of snow began to form around it as it squirmed, paws pushing at anything and everything when death was close at hand. Yang couldn't stomach the sight anymore. She took another arrow from her quiver and ended the beast's suffering.

"Gods, that hurt." Kelpie moved towards Yang, while clutching her bleeding arm.

"Here," Yang said, "let me see it."

Kelpie grit her teeth as Yang ripped the sleeve surrounding the bite wound. And despite the pain, she laughed. "Mother's going to kill you for that."

"Unless you'd rather we amputate your whole arm due to infection…"

"I'll stop. Sorry."

"I'll stitch in a new sleeve myself, if you'd like." She gathered remnants of her dwindling Aura and concentrated it on her hands. "Hmm… doesn't look too deep. How does it feel?"

Her eyes tracked the thread of steam rising from the wound. "Like I'm being burned."

"Pretty normal, then." Her utility belt, though made rough and simple, had the bare essentials for survival out here. A small container filled with homebrewed disinfectant, another with styptic powder, and some sterilized bandages she made out of spare fabrics. She fished these out and applied them on the wound quickly. Kelpie gritted her teeth, but voiced no complaint.

_Aura would be a godsend right now._ But out of all the people in this land, she was the only one gifted with it, even if it wasn't as strong as it had been in her old life. The best she could do was transfer a negligible amount to kickstart the healing process on overdrive, but wounds do not get repaired without a price. The hunger and fatigue wouldn't come until a few more hours, but Kelpie could now worry less about a wound that could last at least two weeks.

"What were these shadowcats doing all the way here?"

Yang finished up tying the bandages. "Look at their stomachs. What do you see?"

"It's…" She narrowed her eyes. "They're… starving?"

"The deer blood must've smelled divine to them. There hasn't been that much game around here for months at least." _Something's spooked them out of here_ were the words she refused to voice. Maybe she didn't need to; the cause was plain as day. She was thankful that the only glowing eyes she'd seen today were yellow. "Come on," Yang said, as she stood up, "let's get a move on. We're burning daylight."

Kelpie stood up as well, mildly testing her bandaged arm, and unable to hide the winces she made. Despite that, she said, "I'll carry one of the cats."

Yang grabbed her shoulder. "Whoa whoa, not with that arm, you won't."

"They're about the only meat we've gotten for weeks, like you said. That deer won't be enough, not with the Night's Watch visiting the Keep."

Yang stopped her words before they got out of her mouth, then sighed. "Yeah, you're right. I'll carry them."

Kelpie looked from one shadowcat to the other and then to the deer they'd caught earlier. "_All_ of them?"

Yang could only give her little sister a long, tired grin.

* * *

**-o- -o- -o- -o- ( IV ) -o- -o- -o- -o-**

Summerkeep.

It was a name suggested to replace Craster's Keep, seeing as dear ol' Father was burned to ashes and said ashes were buried in an unmarked grave outside the perimeter, but not everybody liked it, even if Mother Ferny was the one to propose it. Yang herself liked it least of all. She found it undeserving and embarrassing, despite seeing the humor in naming it like so in a land of ever-winter. In the end, the other elders decided to just call it The Keep.

The Keep came into view the moment Yang and Kelpie exited the Haunted Forest. The perimeter's grounds were surrounded in a palisade, its logs made solely of ironwood, a wall of protection against whatever dangers that lurked beyond the area, alive and dead both. The Keep was built along an incline, so a few logs had to be elevated to leave a gap big enough underfoot to get rid of the runoff that would build and drown the garden there. Looming above all this was the foreboding red comet, casting a bright swollen scar across the night sky.

"The Night's Watch have already arrived," Kelly said, pointing at the black makeshift tents scattered about the front of the gate, several firepits gifting light and shadows to the forest while blowing smoke to the sky.

Yang said nothing as they stepped closer to the gate and felt the eyes of many on her, the meat she hauled on her shoulder, and the two limp carcasses she dragged across the snow and mud with her free hand. She also said nothing as they got to the gate and Fiona, who was on guard duty today atop the wall's battlement, waved at them with a strained smile. Yang hugged the deer tightly, cheek feeling the rough pinpricks of its fur, just so she could free her hand a little to wave back. A group of black brothers were walking out, and they stopped and stared at the sight of her and the haul. The giant white wolf next to them sniffed at the deer, then the shadowcats, but thankfully kept its paws to itself.

The Keep saw a flurry of activity with the arrival of guests. The only thing that came close to this orderly chaos was when a murderous band of freefolk came to take over The Keep a year ago. They were repelled, of course, but not before incurring deaths on both sides.

Little of the main house had changed since it came under new management, so to speak. It was still half-buried to the ground, needing a small climb down and ducking below the main doorway better fitted for a child than an adult. As the Keep welcomed more freefolk who chose peace over conflict when they first came here, the house expanded from the back. What was once a small storeroom for the farming tools, its size no more than a closet, was broken down to become a doorway for a dorm room of sorts which provided beds for the increased population. Part of the dorm room expansion included a dedicated kitchen.

Her mother, Willow, was stirring the large cooking pot when they entered. Yang smiled. Willow returned it, and though the scars she suffered from that beating six years ago marked her face alongside the wrinkles, they did little to mar the radiance in her smile. Then her tired eyes looked down and her whole face transformed, its expressions switching from joy to shock to horror to resignation, in that order.

"What did you do this time, Summer?"

"We're back!" Yang said, dropping the deer on an open table. The shadowcats she left outside, lest she be scolded for dragging mud inside the kitchen. "Got enough here to feed us for the next week or so."

Willow gave her an impatient look.

Sighing, she gazed down at her torso, which donned nothing but a self-made primitive sports bra. _Say what you will about medieval underwear, those things can't properly support my growing twins._ "We got pounced by a couple of shadowcats. One of them scratched Kelly's arm. Since I didn't want to ruin their fur, I covered them up in my shirt and dragged them back here like that."

"Gave some crows an eyeful," Kelpie said, mimicking the bug-eyed look of that black-haired teen with the bastard sword. "It's like they haven't seen a naked woman before!"

"_Nearly_ naked," Yang corrected. While she had shame, she was still more used to Remnant's level of shame, and her current getup was the norm for her back in her academy days. Really, the leather bra was akin to a tank top whose hem ends above the midriff. Nothing fancy, it covers everything except her abs, and the sex-starved men in black were free to look and _just_ look. Anything more, they'd be seeing stars and eating food through a straw for weeks.

"Come here, Kell," Willow said, moving away from the cooking pot, "let me have a look at that arm."

"It's fine," Kelpie whined. "Summer patched it up."

"Do you think it's fine?" she asked Yang.

"It… could use a more thorough cleaning to prevent infection…"

"In other words," Willow said, looking back at Kelpie, "not fine. Don't give me that look, girl. Would you prefer we cut it off when it's infected? Or maybe the beast that bit you was rabid, would you like to be put down as a maddened monster?"

Kelpie, annoyed, grew defiant. "I've had worse."

"No excuses. Come on, let's go to my room."

Kelpie groaned.

Yang eyed the pot hanging above the blazing fire. "What about dinner?"

"Oh right. Be a dear and keep watch of it before I get back."

Yang would much prefer to wash off the blood on her immediately. She was beginning to stink of gore. But all she said was, "All right."

As though she could read her mind, Willow said, "I'll see if I can ask one of your sisters to take over early. You need to get washed up."

Yang smiled. After the wash, she could use a long nap.

"And once you do that, see to the guests in the hall, no arguments."

Yang groaned.

* * *

Guests.

Dear ol' Craster welcomed the Night's Watch with an air of civility few other freefolk offered the crows. What was left of the Craster brood in the Keep thought to keep tradition, with a little coercing from Yang herself. They were prime defenseless territory at that point in time; no need to make enemies or drive away what help they could get due to prejudices. The day of her 'waking' was a little blurry now, but she could still recall things in general, and one such memory was her somehow convincing everyone to stay, reinforce the keep, and prepare for whatever comes their way. And then on the next day, a band of crows had come, seeking Craster but finding just his ashes and bones under an unmarked grave, the soil still fresh and soft from the recent digging. The talks were tense, as the task of negotiation with the crows fell to the eldest widow, Ferny, who was shrewd but overwhelmed from the recent violence. That night, many of her sisters slept with one eye open, afraid that a crow would come for them in their beds, despite the assurances of their leader that they'd be civil.

No incident happened as far as she knew, although it didn't mean her sisters had all gone celibate. Without a certain someone claiming them as their personal property, some of the more adventurous girls—though not in the same kind of adventuring Yang did—got close to crows that stroke their fancy. They often got harsh scolding from the elders, and more than a few close calls with pregnancy, except for five girls who recently gave birth. No crows claimed them as their own.

Yang was still sore with the Night's Watch for that. But on the plus side, she now had four nieces and a nephew to spoil. The eldest, just a month away from her third birthday, was ready to get a name, though Yang had somehow already christened her as Saph and the youngling always responded to it. Orna, the mother, thought it bad luck to give her a name so early, but Yang would not back down. She disliked the "nameless baby" tradition of the freefolk, even if it was done to avoid a strong attachment should the infant not survive past toddlerhood. She was the only one to do so, as everyone else called the children "baby" or "infant" or "whelp" (for Saph specifically, since she preferred the company of puppies than her cousins).

After her wash, she stepped into her little private cove to get changed. The moment she stepped inside, she instantly knew someone had been in here. Neatly folded on her bed was long blue and green dress she rarely wore, if at all.

"Willow…" Yang shook her head and sighed, one hand on her hip. On the one side, it was a little insulting her mother would choose what she wore at her age. On the other side, she was too tired to rebel. She put on the dress, eyeing the intrinsic needlework done on the hems as she slid her arms into the sleeves. There was no mirror to help her judge how she looked, but knowing that this particular dress wasn't form-fitting for a "top-heavy" girl like her, she grabbed a leather belt from her armoire and tied it around her waist. She did what she could with combing her hair, taking care to apply force on the tangles without making her scalp hurt.

_What I would give for some shampoo about now._

Appearance-wise overall, she hadn't changed much from her old self. The only thing of note would be the color of her eyes, which were once blue but slowly morphed to lilac as she aged. Her only theory was that it might've been a mutation created by her Aura. She was unsure why it happened, could only guess that it must have something to do with her reincarnation and this world's lack of Aura among others, animals and people alike. She'd tested what her Aura could do throughout the years and surmised it wouldn't withstand even more than one direct blow from an axe. Good for passive healing or reinforcing her fists like invisible gloves, but not much else.

_But just earlier, in the forest…_

It was small, almost imperceptible, but she knew her Aura was stronger than before. _I could be just imagining things._ A part of her, though, didn't believe that. She knew her Aura, her limits, and that fight with the shadowcats showed she surpassed those limits. But the questions left unanswered were why and how. What changed?

Suddenly there was a knock from the doorway.

"Summer," Kelpie said, her arm now heavily bandaged and strapped to a sling, "mother asked me to call you."

Yang arched an eyebrow. "Does she need me for something?"

"She wants you to see to the guests."

"Ah."

"Quickly."

"All right."

"Immediately."

Rolling her eyes, she replied, "I get it, Kelly. I'm heading down now." She stood up from her bed, checked her dress one last time, and followed Kelpie to the main hall.

She wouldn't remember about the mystery of her Aura's growth until something came crashing down from the roof and set a man on fire.


	2. Stonefall

Posted on FanFiction: November 15, 2019

* * *

/ — —** CHAPTER 2 **— — \

**Stonefall**

**-o- -o- -o- -o- ( I ) -o- -o- -o- -o-**

**JON**

"Best not make eye contact with the girls here," Grenn said.

Jon looked away from the blonde-haired wildling woman carrying a deer twice her size on her shoulder. He blinked at Grenn. "Hmm?"

"Oh, what's this?" Hill said, wearing a checkered grin. "Is Lord Snow smitten with the Firemaiden?"

"No," he retorted. "I made my vows. I was merely astonished at her strength."

"Beautiful, she is, yes, Lord Snow," Hill said, ignoring his words, "but she's not the Firemaiden for nothing. Get close and you'll get burned."

"You seem to know the girl, Hill." Grenn said, his own eyes taking a glance at the figure shrinking in the distance. "Is there a reason why she's called Firemaiden?"

"A tall tale, it is," Hill said with a laugh, as they continued on their way outside the gated perimeter. While Hill and Grenn would be walking to their respective camps, Jon would be looking for Samwell Tarly near the back. The Lord Commander had asked for a raven to send back to Castle Black. "You must've heard about Craster, don't you?"

"The old name of this place, I've heard," Jon answered.

"He's the father of most of the women here, including the Firemaiden."

Jon did notice a familial resemblance between the people here. He didn't think, however, that many of the women here were siblings. Cousins, aunts, nieces, he could understand, but _everyone_ sisters of each other?

"The old bastard"—here, Hill glanced at him with the corners of his eyes, smiling all the while—"was insatiable, I've heard. His lust breaking any and all taboos."

They'd passed the first firepit set up by their brothers, a group of five huddled together, grabbing for the heat, a few already gorging on rations.

"He laid with his daughters," Hill continued. "And when those daughters gave birth to daughters and they come of age, he laid with them too, giving him more daughters. What he does with his sons… well, I'm sure we'd come across a baby corpse around here eventually."

As they walked, Jon heard Ghost slip into the forest to look for his dinner. The smell of deer's blood must've reminded him of his hunger. He tried to push away thoughts of the direwolf discovering infant-sized bones during his search.

"Anyway, from the tales I've heard, they say Summer the Firemaiden, no more than ten at the time, tried to defend her mother from getting ruthlessly beaten to death by Craster."

"And she killed him?" Grenn asked.

"Not on the first attempt, no. Her father backhanded her close to the fire where a pot of stew had been boiling."

It seemed almost poetic that they pass another firepit at that moment, where another group of black brothers huddled around it for warmth as a pot of stew slowly boiled above the flames. A similar fire where a child's head had almost landed on it.

"They say her hair had caught in the fire," Hill said, chuckling. "She didn't even notice. Just took the boiling pot from the fire with her bare hands"—Hill mimicked picking up a pot—"and then, with her hair still aflamed, clobbered Craster with it." His chuckles turned to full laughter, an odd sound that disturbed the other rangers as they moved along to the backend of the camps.

"Just think about it, Lord Snow! A child of fire holding a large pot and slamming it down onto the head of her father just to save her mother from torment. Ain't that a beautiful imagery?"

Olin Hill had been charged with several murders in King's Landing. Where a knife in the back or a slit of the throat would be quiet and efficient, Hill preferred drawn-out, complicated kills. That was why he got caught with his fifth victim; her screams attracted the attention of the local garrison. He asked to take the black as soon as he'd been arrested, and now he was here, admiring the gruesome murder of an awful man.

Many of the black brothers in this ranging were former criminals like Hill, forced to choose between death or defense of the Wall until they die naturally or otherwise. Years ago, Jon would've thought becoming a sworn brother of the Night's Watch like his Uncle Benjen would be the highest honor he could attain in his life. Now, though… with black brothers like Hill around…

"I wouldn't call that beautiful," Grenn said, grimacing, "but thank you for the story, all the same. Now if you'll excuse me, my camp's over here."

Jon nodded to Grenn and also said his thanks to Hill. He could see Samwell tending to his horses and the crows. He made his way to him.

"I haven't gotten to the best part, Lord Snow."

He stopped, looked over his shoulder, where Hill still donned that grin of broken teeth.

"She didn't suffer any burns," he said. "No burns from her head, nor burns from where she held the pot. Stranger, still, is the fire on her hair, which just poofed out as soon as Craster died… and her hair didn't look as if it had been on fire at all.

"But… make her angry, hurt her family, and the fire returns." He gestured his hands wildly above his head, mimicking the mystical fire. "That's not all. Her strength is… shall we say… well, you've seen the wooden logs they've erected for their wall?"

Jon nodded, having an idea where this was going, as outlandish as the thought was.

"They say she carried those logs herself. Cut the trees down herself, too. I've also heard—"

"If you don't mind, Hill, I need to speak to Samwell." Jon kept his face neutral. "I'll keep your stories in mind when I see her."

"Believe me or not, it doesn't matter, Lord Snow. We're all unworthy in her eyes; I can tell." He laughed again before sauntering off to his own campsite, alone.

As Jon approached his friend, the agitated cries of the crows got louder. Sam stood at their side, one hand on the rein of his packhorse, the other scratching his head.

"Did a fox spook them?" Jon called out.

Sam yelped, whirled around. "Oh! Hello, Jon. No. No foxes as far as I know. They just got restless all of a sudden."

He chanced a look at the black birds. "They seem desperate to fly out of their cages."

"It's not normal." Sam sighed, his breath shaky. "But I wish it were. I don't want to think about what's got them so spooked."

Jon thought back on the several wildling villages they'd passed on the way here, each one deserted, each one looking as if the inhabitants left in haste, whether it'd been coercion or fear, none knew. His burned hand throbbed underneath his glove, and he felt the urge to grab some snow on the ground and squeeze it.

"Well," he said, using his good hand to grasp Longclaw's direwolf pommel, "whatever threat comes our way, we'll fight it."

"Oh I don't doubt that." Sam gazed into the haunted as the messenger crows continued rattling about their cages. "But are we prepared to face them at all?"

Wanting to change the topic, Jon said, "The Lord Commander wishes to send a message—"

But before he could finish, the horses around them looked to have been infected with the crows' fears, shaking their heads, loudly snorting, stomping their forelegs, all but ready to bolt should emotion overcome their broken state.

Sam grabbed the reins of his main horse and the baggage horse next to him, the cages hanging beside their saddles rattled on and on and dropping black feathers along with avian excrement on the snow. Jon quickly went for the other baggage horse, startling it in his advance. He got hold of the reins, gritting his teeth when putting too much force on his burned hand, and did what he could to calm the animal down.

"Jon, the sky!"

Jon looked up in time to see something bright red shoot past their heads and crashing no more than twenty feet from where they stood. The snow it hit was knee-deep and its entry was not gentle, and Jon revisited a memory of when he, eight namedays and frustrated, threw a stone straight into the river when he failed to make them skip. The horses' agitation returned, but he and Sam kept their wits and their grips until they'd been calmed once more.

"What was that, Sam?"

"It… kind of looked like the comet."

Night had completely creeped into the sky, so there was no mistaking the comet splashing red against its dark blue canvas. It might have been just a trick of his eyes, but it looked as if the comet had gotten bigger, more widespread.

"Whatever it is," Jon said, lowering his gaze to search around them, "could there have been more?"

"It looks to be just the one," Sam said. The other rangers had seen it, too, and the ones closest to the crater had gathered near it but dared not go further than fifteen feet. "Else half of them would be too busy looking at the others."

"Could it really have been from the comet?" Jon asked.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I've heard of stars falling, but never a comet. And one that still looks as if it's on fire."

Buried in several feet of snow, the flying object cast a bright red glow upon the mass of white as steam rose out of the hole. The black brothers continued their murmurs, talks of signs, the sky falling, the angered gods, babble after babble of what could've caused this. The agitation in the animals had found new victims to torment, and Jon wished it didn't. A part of him also wondered why he wasn't as fazed as the others, that whatever fears he'd housed during the object's descent had somehow dissipated like the steam soaring with the wind, and its place was an odd sense of longing, a call Jon had trouble ignoring.

"Jon?"

He stepped forward.

"Jon, wait!"

He did not.

_This is foolishness_. It certainly was, but something in the crater called for him, like a mother beckoning for his son to come home. _No, it's not._ He imagined a moth flying across a dark room in order to reach a candle.

The closer he got, the more certain he was that the glow was pulsing, as if the snow itself had grown a beating heart. His own heart was beating wildly inside his chest.

The closer he got, the more real he felt the heat against his exposed skin, as if he were nearing that old fireplace in Winterfell where Arya and he swapped made-up stories to pass the night away. He remembered how the flames danced over the hearth, how when lulls between their storytelling had them watch the chaotic waves of the fire's tips and listen to the snaps and burning of the wood.

_A moth to flame. Am I to be burned again?_ If so, what was the harm? He'd been burned before.

He clenched his hands into fists, and though the pain from the burns was great enough to make his eyes water, his feet continued moving forward.

A faint, shimmering hum entered his hearing as he kneeled next to the hole, peering into it. Already it felt like sitting next to a small fire. He shoveled the snow away, widening the hole, and when a sudden brightness had him closing his eyes shut, he plunged his hand downwards until he felt something warm and solid. His first thought was rock, his second thought blazing coal, but if it _were_ the latter, even the best leather glove couldn't contain the immense heat. This was merely warm, like dipping into bath water left to cool a little after its boiling.

Jon remembered the drapes in the Lord Commander's solar, the wight that had gotten close to choking him to death, and getting saved by Ghost and the timely arrival of Lord Commander Mormont who'd come to investigate the noise. The lamp's fire was small, but the oil and flammable drapes were suitable food for its unending hunger for growth. He had grasped that fiery cloth in his hand, numb from the burgeoning burns, and tossed it at the corpse, hoping he'd burn.

The brightness from earlier had dimmed a while after he'd plucked the item from its snowy tomb, and though the warmth was bearable, comforting, he could feel untapped power culminating within it, like a kettle on the verge of whistling. It was a large, red gem, its texture more stone than jewel, its shape more dagger than orb. It could've been a ruby ore, but he never once heard of ruby burning bright as if it contained fire within.

_It may very well house fire_, he thought, grasping it with both hands, mesmerized. _Its shine is more fire than blood._ His mind once more wandered back to simpler times in the past. In Winterfell. Home. The fireplace. Arya. Stories. Family. Honor. Duty.

**Regret.**

Jon shook his head and stood up. Sam was next to him, peering at the glowing stone.

"I've never seen anything like it," he said, somehow eager to touch it but too afraid to do so. "How… how does it feel?"

"Warm," Jon answered, giving the stone a squeeze, and for some reason, his burned hand no longer objected to the act. His eyes drifted to the comet above and wondered if it really had dropped a part of itself near them.

* * *

**-o- -o- -o- -o- ( II ) -o- -o- -o- -o-**

The leather pouch Sam offered him was old but durable. As long as there was something to cover the glowing rock, Jon didn't mind. Anything to keep it out of sight from the others, but if he were to be honest, he needed it away from himself most of all.

Magic coiled inside the blood red rock. He was certain of this now more than ever. Not just at how it perpetually glowed with warmth, but with the changes it brought to Jon's hand.

Still wrapped in its glove, Jon was almost afraid at what he'd see: skin that should be pink and brown and raw morphed into the hand before he grabbed those burning drapes, as if memory had become the present once more. The pain was gone, even when he separated from the stone. It was incredible relief, but the connotation was alarming.

"The Lord Commander must be told."

A stone of fire, of healing? It brought half-remembered stories of House Dayne's ancestral sword, Dawn, and how it had been forged from fragments of a fallen star. But none of the stories told of miraculous healing just from the mere touch of the fragments. If anything, Jon was stuck on what he was supposed to do with such an item. The Old Bear would know what to do better than he could.

"Sam, come with me." He deftly slung the pouch over his head, onto his shoulder. It stuck out against his shadow-colored fur cloak, but at least the rock's glow was contained within.

He glanced towards his horse-sized burdens and then said, "All right. Just let me tether the horses."

Jon helped him with that as the gathered crowd of black brothers grew. Word had spread already, and many curious ones had come to see. If not him, they'd be asking Sam for answers; he was, after all, the closest to the rock other than himself when it landed.

"What in the Seven was that?" one of the newcomers asked.

Jon bothered not to answer, concentrating on the path back to the Keep. Many eyes were on him, some on the leather pouch slung over his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sam did his best to not squirm under the rapt attention.

"Some falling star," another black brother answered. "Fortunate no one was hurt."

Jon pushed his way through the crowd, with Sam closely following his heels. Halfway to their destination, the men were more mixed. Some were curious, some were hungry, and some would rather keep warm than bother with the hubbub.

No one stopped them along the way, which Jon considered lucky. The stares they garnered earlier—at him, at the pouch resting on his hip most of all—were worrying.

"Jon," Sam said behind him, "wait."

"We can't. The Lord Commander…" For some reason, everything felt cold. His burned hand groped the leather pouch and felt the jagged edges of the comet fragment.

"Jon!"

There was numbness on his cheeks, dryness on his cold lips. The surrounding area had dimmed, as if a thick cloud had covered the moon. He shivered from the abrupt coldness, his breath coming out like smoke. He stopped, blinked, and saw the people around them, hushed to silence, halted in their activities as if time itself stopped, but all were still talking, all were still breathing, smoke shooting out of their noses and mouths like him. All were looking up.

"Jon…" Sam's voice had gone quiet, shaky. Jon felt him tug at his cloak, twice, thrice, multiple times. Desperate. "Look!"

Jon looked up.

Mormont's Torch was bright. Brighter than the stars, brighter than the moon, brighter than any and all, brighter than it had ever been these past weeks. This was no trick of the light; shadows had robbed the celestial bodies of their brilliance, moon and stars alike, leaving the night sky looking starless and under the phase of a new moon. What remained was Mormont's Torch, the comet unhindered by the phenomenon, yet Jon didn't think so. He hadn't been imagining things earlier when he gazed at it after the magic rock's fall. The comet had expanded, bloated like a satisfied tick, on the verge of popping.

As soon as that thought hit, he felt—instinctively more than physically—the rising heat within the leather pouch. The comet soon answered in kind, pulsing like a heartbeat, switching from a myriad of rainbow colors along its misshapen sphere before a great big flash blinded him. He heard screams; he heard his own, too.

"Sam!" he said, grasping at him with closed eyes. His hand found a shoulder that jolted at his touch. "Sam?"

"It's me."

His vision was slowly returning, holes of clarity along a squirming rainbow canvas. "Can you see?"

"I, I, I don't know," Sam said, and his shoulder moved erratically under Jon's hand. "What was that?"

Jon blinked and blinked, but it did nothing. He then kept one eye closed and looked around. Others had been blinded like him; through reddish purple haze, he spotted some rangers lying on the ground, hands on their eyes and either yelling in pain or shouting that they're blind.

As if sensing something, yet at the back of his mind, he believed it to be a bad idea, Jon gazed upon the comet again. It looked less of a comet and more of a cracked egg, like the ones Arya pulverized when she tried cracking them open. Its mass expanded and broke off, fragments flying every which way in the night sky. Not just pulverized egg, the visage reminded Jon of berries crushed between his fingers, a bubble's burst in slow motion, a bouncy ball Julya once crafted that exploded when Bran threw it off a tower.

_The comet exploded. It exploded and—_

His hand—his burned hand—grasped the leather pouch, feeling for the rock's somehow calming warmth. It pulsed and Jon felt it, even through two layers of leather.

_The comet exploded_, he thought again, his breath coming and going rapidly now. _E__xploded, exploded, exploded—_

His thoughts returned to the bouncing ball, the sound it made when it hit the ground.

He pondered it for just one second before the thunder stampeded through them all. Thunder was the right name to give this roar, a sound that trailed after a flash of light in the sky. But Jon had no time to admonish himself for thinking it too late, busy as he was protecting his eardrums from rupturing. Despite that, he somehow knew on an instinctive level that this thunder was power beyond anything he ever felt before. Stronger than the stone in his pouch, like the whole of Dorne against a grain of sand. A power that would resonate through all of Westeros.

Probably the whole world.

The rumble continued for several seconds—_minutes_, it felt like—but got quieter and quieter as time passed. When it was safe to take his hands off his ears, the thunder had moved on—maybe towards Winterfell, towards King's Landing, or all the way towards the Sunspear palace in Dorne—but his ears weren't as unscathed as he believed. A constant _eeeeeeee_ sounded inside his head, as if a frightened spirit had taken refuge somewhere in there.

Around him, black brothers looked to be suffering with their own frightened spirits trespassing in their headspaces. A few had been knocked unconscious, their ears bleeding. Others were on all fours, either looking at the snow or the food they had eaten earlier atop it. The subtle authority and grace the Night's Watch had exhumed was utterly absent among the out cold and disoriented group of men in dark cloaks before him.

"Jon?"

He heard his name through the ringing within his head, whirred around, and saw Samwell lying on the snow, pale and gasping and wretched. Jon offered his hand to him, but Sam didn't seem to notice. His focus was on the sky, now brightened up by the volcanic eruption among the cosmos.

"Is it the end of the world, Jon?"

His mouth moved to answer, but words failed him. The urge returned, a primal instinctual urge that wanted Jon to look at the comet again, like a deer sensing the wolf stalking in the shadows. He gazed back up at Mormont's Torch, now seeing it more as a flower in full bloom, a myriad of colors dancing among its petals. For all the beauty it brought onto the sky, something within him felt more terrified than awed.

Something in his face scared Sam from taking his hand. He had to grab him by the shoulders and lift his heavy frame up, and when strength failed halfway through, he was forced to shout at Sam to get up.

The way towards the Keep was strangely quiet, save for the snow cracking under their boots and Sam's labored breaths. Sam's eyes darted back and forth between the path and the destroyed comet, and while fear had always been a companion of his, he still retained the strength to push forward regardless. This skill had been honed in the years they'd been in the Night's Watch, and though he was no longer pushed around by Thorne's "tough love" training, the time he spent with Maester Aemon seemed to have honed a different facet of that same skill. Jon wished he knew what that facet was. He could very well use some of it to make sense of what was going on.

They ran through the Keep's entrance, which looked unguarded, but in truth, security was most likely akin to the crowd outside. Their eyes were seeing the broken comet, but not really believing it was happening. Again, Jon was unsure if this was another part of the magic suddenly filling this place—

_**an odd sense of longing, a call Jon had trouble ignoring**_

—or everybody had been too stunned to move at all.

_End of the world as we know it._ He stopped walking, just looked at the Keep no more than thirty feet away. _We can't escape it._

It took three blinks before he got it into his head that the Keep was on fire, its thatched roof providing good flammable straw as nourishment. Some of the rangers had bolted out of the entrance, fearing the fire almost as much as a wight. Jon didn't see the Lord Commander among the group standing and watching the fire build and feed atop the abode. He did, however, see Mormont's pet raven, perching restlessly on Dolorous Edd's shoulder. Jon feared the worst.

While Jon moved towards Edd, Sam slipped from his grip and went the other way. He looked back, ready to call him out, but rather than run away from the flames as he expected, Sam ran towards it. Or rather, specifically, towards the wildlings carrying buckets of water, trying to snuff the flames that were dancing at the outside walls. Nobody could reach the roof from where they were, but not for a lack of trying. A few brave wildlings procured ladders from somewhere, gesturing and shouting at the others that the fire must be extinguished from its source. Sam came in during that argument. Jon couldn't hear what was said, but things looked to have turned sour, though the wildlings seemed to be keeping civil about it. Sam continued talking, and the wildlings listened more attentively this time.

_Get moving._

Jon shook his head, took one step forward to Sam's position, pausing, looked up at the sky, at the comet, and then jogged towards Dolorous Edd. He saw Lord Mormont among the rangers now, steam rising off his frame, as if all the hot spiced wine he drank throughout the trip were coming out. He shouted no orders, no words to disseminate the panic coursing through the rangers. Instead, his gaze was locked onto the Keep's main entrance, where the fire was at its strongest and brightest, heavy smoke drifting out of it.

He walked close to the Lord Commander, inwardly debating whether to call him or not. His focus remained on the entrance, its door close to falling off its final lower hinge, undoubtedly barreled by a group of rangers—dare as he hated to think this about his own black brothers—too frightened to stop and remember the door went inwards not outwards.

"Commander," Jon said softly.

The Old Bear took a quick glance at him, then turned back to the entrance. "Snow. Are you well?"

_My ears are ringing, my eyes hurt, I feel like we're seeing the end of the world, but my hand hasn't throbbed in quite a while thanks to—_

"I'm fine, sir." He clenched both hands. The right one still didn't hurt. "What's wrong?"

"The Firemaiden, Snow," he said, hand on the hilt of his sword, but leaving it sheathed. "Something's not right with her."

"_Her! Her!_" the raven squawked, flying from Edd's shoulder to Mormont's.

"I got no bloody corn for you!" Mormont said, but no heat was in it.

Jon thought back on the woman, her strength, her golden hair, her mesmerizing lilac eyes. "Where is she, then?"

Mormont nodded his head at the Keep. "Said she'll take care of the fire."

"But how does she intend to—"

By the time Jon would've said 'extinguish the fire,' the Keep would have its roof cleared of all flames, its main hall covered completely in shadow. The ashes and soot were still around, scars that told a fire had truly ravaged the house. Yet both fire and smoke had disappeared completely, not even embers.

And there, walking on unsteady feet by the entrance was the Firemaiden. One hand went up as if to grab the door handle only to catch air. She tried twice more before she looked up to find that the door was outside and unusable.

He had a clearer view of her face. He expected lilac eyes, but what he instead saw was red. Blood red like the stone in his pouch. And this redness seemed to… spill out of her eyes like wings made of fire.

_The Firemaiden. The stories were true._

Her now red eyes, looking about as unsteady as her legs, blinked twice. Just twice. The third had them close completely and she collapsed onto the dirt.

* * *

**-o- -o- -o- -o- ( III ) -o- -o- -o- -o-**

"A rock that crashed from the sky."

Jon noted that while Lord Commander Mormont acknowledged the sheer audacity of his claim, he refused to touch the stone at all, just looked at it from across the table inside the makeshift tent. With the main hall burnt and the wildlings hard at work to fix it in the morning, the Old Bear thought it better to erect his tent outside the Keep and sleep in it. Jon, however, thought it dangerous, believing that if this blood red rock had come from Mormont's Torch, and with said comet being as it were now, many more would probably follow. His fear had credence, seeing as the Keep's fire started from another stone just like this one.

"Well," Lord Mormont said, taking a swig from his cup of spiced wine, "considering a whole room of rangers witnessed the fiery death of one of their own because of a rock…"

Once the ashes had settled and the wildlings carried their witchly sister to bed for recovery, the Night's Watch reentered the hall to carry the immolated corpse of Lark the Sisterman.

"I could hear him from the doorway, you know," Dolorous Edd had said to him when the rangers were carrying the corpse to a more controlled and proper burial for a brother. "Intending to bed two or three women tonight. The Firemaiden must've heard him too and decided that since he wanted someone to warm his bed, she'd warm it with fire."

"But she didn't set him on fire," Jon had replied, already told of the chaos that erupted inside the hall after another stone—an almost mirror to the one in his leather pouch—crashed directly into Lark and immediately setting him ablaze. None had dared to so much as touch the stone as they carried Lark out, and if not for Jon taking it himself, they might've burned Lark with the stone, and something told Jon—a gut feeling more than anything—that it would be a bad idea to do so. "It was this stone, was it not?"

Edd had glanced at the shimmering stone in his hand for only a moment, and then at his eyes. "Not directly, maybe, but are we certain of anything about her?"

He didn't have a response to that, so he said no more on the subject. At that point, the Lord Commander's tent had been successfully erected, and he was needed for a private meeting within.

"It feels like the world is changing before our very eyes, Snow," Mormont said, sending Jon back to the here and now.

"_Snow, Snow!_" the raven cried on his perch.

"Wights, a witch, a wildling king," Mormont continued, pacing about the tent, goblet in hand. "It's like stories have become our reality."

He didn't know what to say, really, but felt he needed to say _something_. "Come what may, the Night's Watch will prepare for them."

"If you had said that to me when I first donned the black, I would've been inspired." The look in his eyes said otherwise. It told of years trying to make use of a dull blade.

And in essence, that was what the Night's Watch had become. Just a blunt instrument to whack the wildlings from crossing the territories south of the Wall. Jon had a moment to recall a story Julya once told him at their nightly fireside storytelling. The details were blurry now, but he knew it was a story about hunters trying to stop a world-ending calamity, how they'd lost as much as they'd gained and by the end of it all, only one was left to savor victory.

It made Jon wonder if this was the fate awaited him, awaited them all. Whether it be by wights or the wildlings, there was no telling which would come for them first.

"Take that away," the Old Bear said, gesturing to the red stone on the table.

"_Away! Away!_" said the raven.

Jon grabbed the stone with his bare hand—his healed, _unblemished _hand—and stowed it in his leather pouch, hearing the clunk as the stone met its brighter, shinier brethren.

He witnessed the Lord Commander finish the rest of his wine and set the goblet down on the now empty table. Next to it, he set down something else, a small rolled up parchment, its seal already broken. "A missive came from Castle Black just a while ago."

He eyed the missive, then Lord Mormont. Seeing this was what he wanted, Jon walked to the table, grabbed the parchment and unrolled it. When he finished reading the contents, he put the missive back on the table, unrolled, and looked worriedly at Mormont.

"Do I have your loyalty, Snow?"

"I'd give my life to the Watch, sir."

"A mere trickle compared to what I'd gain with loyalty," Mormont said. He picked up his goblet, saw that it was empty, and slammed it back down. The parchment rolled to the end of the table and would've fallen to the ground if not for Jon's hand catching it before it could tip over.

"Whichever route you choose, I will follow." But on the inside, he screamed, _No, don't! We need to find Uncle Benjen. He's still out there somewhere, alive, I know it!_

The missive came from Maester Aemon, the handwriting crude but legible. In it, he told of rocks from the sky falling around Castle Black and hitting the Wall. Some rocks were like crystallized lightning, some were as cold as the frost from the farthest north, and some rocks burned like dragon fire. And these latter rocks had met with the Wall, and the Wall held… but at a price. From what Maester Aemon described it, the areas in which the fire stones had hit were deforming like wax from a lit candle, slowly but surely. Much of the damage, he only reported of the area near the castle, but if these magical rocks were to be spread out, not just falling in one area…

"If I could split myself into three people, I would've handled each problem as they come," Mormont said, resuming his pacing. "As it is now, we will have to stop the great ranging."

"But what of Benj—"

"The Wall takes priority, Snow." His words were harsh. "Loathe as I am to abandon things as they are, the Wall must be protected." He tapped the parchment with two fingers. "They'll need all the help they can to survey the damages on the Wall. And extract the bloody things before they make work of the Wall like ice in the middle of summer."

Jon took a deep breath and after several seconds of silence, nodded.

"Which is why we'll be splitting up."

Jon hid his gasp, understanding slowly dawning. "Sir…?"

"I'm loathe to abandon things as they are, Snow. I told you."

Footsteps from the entrance. Here entered Thoren Smallwood, his face grim but determined.

"Lord Commander," he said, stopping at the entrance. A drizzle had fallen in the area, so his dark fur cloak dripped rainwater on the muddy ground.

The Old Bear turned to face him. "Have you finished what I asked you?"

He nodded. "Twenty in all are willing, sir."

Mormont nodded back. "It will do." He then unrolled another piece of parchment—this one Jon recognized at a glance to be the map the elder wildling drew before she went back to praying for their Firemaiden's recovery at the heart tree—and lay it on the table. "The travel will be quicker now that there's fewer of us. We'll be crossing the river northward, then again westward." His fingers dragged across the parchment. "Elder Ferny has said Mance Rayder and his ilk reside somewhere in the Frostfang Mountains."

Jon wanted to ask a question, but Thoren spoke over him, drowning his voice with his own. "Those are treacherous lands, sir. Do we have the equipment to venture forth?"

"If not, we will make do." His face scrunched while tracing the length of his gray beard, jaw to waist. "You have a question in your lips, Snow. Ask."

He was about to ask if they were really turning back or not, but his thoughts caught up to his mouth. The question needn't be asked now; the route was clear. "I'll be coming with, to the mountains."

It wasn't a question, but the Old Bear answered, "I prefer you go back with the others. Show your brothers that there's nothing to fear with these glowing rocks."

_Yet you refuse to touch them yourself, sir._

"But," Mormont continued, "it is up to you, in the end. This continued ranging is voluntary. I'll be sending out ravens to the other groups of the Night's Watch to bring news and the decision."

"Still, my decision is to go with the ranging, sir." Jon felt his throat going dry; he swallowed his spit. "Besides, I am your squire."

The Lord Commander looked at him for a long time, possibly gauging the amount of conflict he held inside. Though the decision was made, he still had doubts about it. Honor and duty dictated that he go back to the Wall and remove whatever could be dissolving it, yet what he felt inside urged him to keep moving forward, farther north, to where he could find a clue of his uncle's whereabouts—

—_or his corpse._

His face was calm, his words were steady, but his heart truthfully felt heavy. It made him wonder what the Lord Commander felt about all this, wonder if inside the aging man's chest was an equally aging heart that continued beating while carrying the baggage and responsibility accrued from a lifetime as leader. It made him wonder about his father, Eddard, and if he too felt the doubt and indecision gnaw at his insides.

At last, Mormont sighed through his nose and crossed his arms. "We will stay for another two days. Then we march."

_"March! March! March!"_ cried the raven, flapping its wings about.

Mormont eyed his two guests, expecting disagreement and finding none. "Dismissed."

Jon felt the raindrops tap on his head like drumming fingers, stronger and louder than it had been when he was inside. Uncaring of it, he nodded towards Thoren and began his trek towards his makeshift camp. It was nothing more than a small space captured between a trio of immature birch trees that stood up to his shoulders. He had set up a canopy on them when the Commander had called for him, and it was still there when he came back… but with an added guest resting within the small area protected from the rain.

"Ghost." Jon smiled, but on the inside, shame crept alongside the elation. He had completely forgotten about his direwolf ever since the stonefall.

His ears perked upon his approach, and Jon saw steam rush out of his nose. Having caught his scent, Ghost opened his big red eyes and looked at him, silent but expressive. Jon kneeled next to him and affectionately rubbed his head and neck. Ghost nudged his chin and went back to lying down.

Snow crunching from behind alerted him of a visitor before he heard their greeting.

"Hey, Jon."

A smile forming on his lips, he turned around and said, "It's good to see you're still in one piece, Sam."

Sam's face was flushed, as if he had one too many flagons of wine for his tolerance, but it didn't seem like he had lost his faculties. And he didn't smell of neither wine nor spirits; just a faint aroma of venison roast.

"The free folk are quite hospitable once you get to know them," Sam admitted, shrugging.

_Free folk, he says, not wildlings…_ Jon thought it better not to ask him about that. Instead, he said, "You've enjoyed yourself, I take it?"

Sam hummed, a wispy look on his face. "I had wonderful company." Then in a blink, the wistfulness disappeared. "But I didn't come here to boast, Jon. I've been hearing whispers around camp. They're saying—"

"That the great ranging had to withdraw to take care of a dire situation back in the Wall," Jon interrupted. "Yes, I've heard."

But Sam looked at him, wide-eyed, mouth open. "We're going back?"

Jon blinked. "Did Thoren ask you anything tonight?"

He shook his head. "I was with the free folk mostly after the fire broke out."

_And Thoren would rather not aggravate the wildlings at all right now._

Jon said, "The Lord Commander received a message from Castle Black. They've been affected by the stonefall as well some days ago."

Sam's gaze swerved up to the general direction of the comet, but rain clouds had covered it, like bandages to a wound. "But the stonefall happened just a few hours ago."

"I doubt Maester Aemon would lie."

"I didn't mean it like that," Sam retorted. "I'm just trying to figure out what could've caused it. Surely it's the comet, but… there're so many pieces missing to this, I'm having difficulties making heads or tails of it."

"Changing topics," Jon said, gesturing for his friend to come under the canopy and out of the drizzle, "what were you going to say about those whispers?"

"Oh." Sam looked around, then leaned close to Jon. "The men have been talking about the Firemaiden. They've seen what she had done. Some feared her before, but I believe that number doubled after tonight."

"Faced with magic after centuries of nothing, even I would be wary."

"They believe she caused the fire and the thunderous roar of the comet."

"I might be wary, but in no manner would I be _that_ delusional."

"Then I guess you know more than our brothers." Sam offered a smile that failed to mask the concern in his eyes. "If the great ranging is to be cancelled and we are to return to the Wall, then maybe it's for the best."

"How so?"

"I've been talking with the free folk here, Jon. And some of them are as paranoid as our delusional brothers."

A pit formed in Jon's stomach. An intake of breath, that was all the outward sign he showed, as if bracing for an oncoming blow.

"They didn't go so far as to say _we_ put the main hall on fire"—Sam paused to lick his drying lips—"but bringing misfortune upon the Keep…"

"Why would they blame us for that?"

"Same as how the black brothers blamed them for the stonefall, I reckon. No reason behind it; just plain animosity."

"There's more to it than that." Jon's gut feeling told him that, anyway.

Sam nodded, gaze going up to the clouded sky and finding no moon, no stars, and no comet to shed light into this dangerous mess they were in. "The people here worship the old gods, but most of their faith is centered on the Firemaiden. They believe her to be an… _embodiment_ of the gods somehow. Different from the skinchangers and the greenseers. Something _otherworldly_ in her strength and temperament, they said."

"And her ability with fire," Jon said.

"That, too, I suppose. With that kind of power, I would think her more attune with the Essos's religion than the old gods."

"Essos?"

"Yeah. You've heard of the Lord of Light, right?"

"Bits and pieces." And about as specific as hearing there are wildlings north of the Wall.

Sam shrugged. "I've only heard tidbits of it from a red priest that passed by Horn Hill, but essentially most of their faith revolves around fire. Their god lurks within all fire. And their champion wields a sword of fire."

"I don't think the people of the Keep are secret followers of that Essos religion."

"Me neither, but their faith in the Firemaiden has as much zeal as a devout follower of the Seven, Jon. I believe we've overstayed our welcome."

"I guess not even your newly discovered charm worked for all of them." He lightly jabbed Sam's shoulder and smiled, which came and went in a blink. "But yes, we definitely have overstayed. We will be departing in two days… but if things are tense in the morning, we might be leaving much sooner than expected."

They sat there in silence, hearing the light taps of rain on the canopy and mulling over what they'd discussed. When the drizzle subsided, Sam scooted out of the cover and stood up.

"I best get to packing," he said, brushing his bum of snow. "I'll see you in the morning, Jon."

Jon prepared for bed soon after and was asleep in seconds, and as had been the case since they'd started this ranging, his dreams haunted him.

A clearing covered in snow, deep enough to reach his ankles, and he stood in the center of it. The clouds above had veiled the sun and had casted shadows upon the expanse that what forest trees he could gleam through the thin fog was enveloped in darkness as if night had settled in before the moon did in the sky.

And as always, his eyes drifted to a body lying on the snow, steam rising out of a bloody, gaping hole in her stomach. She breathed irregularly, sometimes through the nose, sometimes through the shivering mouth, as if she were trying to relearn how to do this. She could try, but the wound was large and the blood had spread out from the hole, which bored all the way through her back. Her eyes were unfocused and dull, but an indomitable will kept her from dying outright. Jon could only imagine the pain to be excruciating—maybe more so than what happened to his hand—yet she defied the call of the Stranger, if only to say her goodbye to the person kneeling next to her.

She said a name and some words, but he couldn't hear them from where he stood, silent and unmoving.

The other responded, and Jon was taken aback by its familiarity to him.

In every iteration of this dream, these two people were as featureless as naked puppets. Their clothing was muddled, their words either whispered or intelligible, their faces smoothed by time like the oldest, decrepit statues in Winterfell.

Now… a droplet of clarity had come. The dying woman—wild blonde hair stained in red. The kneeling woman—short dark hair, half-shrouding the tears coming out of her… silver eyes…

_I know those eyes…_

She smiled, but the sadness in her voice—how familiar it was—was unmistakable. "I'm here. I'll always be here."

_Julya…?_


End file.
